Supernatural House: The Devil's in the Details
by starhawk2005
Summary: Ten patients come down with a mysterious, lethal ailment, and House can't figure it out. Luckily, the 'CDC' sent over its finest – the Winchester Three.
1. Chapter 1

**Supernatural House: The Devil's in the Details **

**Author: starhawk2005**

**Summary: Ten patients come down with a mysterious, lethal ailment, and House can't figure it out. Luckily, the 'CDC' sent over its finest – the Winchester Three.**

**Disclaimer: Don't own any of these very pretty people. If anyone knows where I can rent John, Dean, or House for my personal pr0n amusement, however, I'll be your BFF.  
Betas and Kudos: Boy, I have a whole army of people to thank this time. oddlyfamiliar, for talking me into this and swapping plot ideas back and forth. oddlyfamiliar and daizze for suggesting the title. medicinal_mirth for beta'ing this monster. phantomas for so graciously letting me steal borrow the text she transcribed from the Roman Rituals.  
Author Notes: AU and all of that jazz. In terms of House canon, I'd say around the end of S2, but before all the OMIGODDRAMA of the final episode.**

It was just another typical day in the Diagnostics Department at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. Or so Greg House had first thought.

Another patient had been brought in with an odd presentation. Nothing unusual there. Originally, the attending had thought it was some kind of psychosis. The patient had been acting crazy, speaking in a guttural voice, laughing and shouting obscenities. No family history of psychiatric disorders. Maybe it was a post-amphetamine or post-cocaine psychosis? That had been the consensus at the time, even though all drug tests came back clean. They'd figured if it was drug-induced, the guy would calm down eventually.

Instead, the patient died forty hours after admission.

Last House heard, psychosis wasn't _fatal_. Unless the person obviously did something to hurt themselves, and that wasn't the case here. There'd been no obvious injuries on admission, and the patient was in full restraints the entire time, according to the report from the nurses and the attending. Assuming the staff wasn't lying, of course.

A few hours later, two _more_ people were admitted. Same symptoms. More fruitless tests. More hours of Princeton 's best ER staff, wringing their hands and wondering what the Hell was going on.

That was when Cuddy had barged into the Diagnostic office, interrupting him in the midst of asking the Magic Eight-Ball some important questions – such as the likelihood of Wilson doing Debbie from Accounting before his divorce from Julie was finalized. House, as usual, had resisted taking the case at first, but a quick scan of the three files had hooked him in. It didn't sound like any psychosis – or disease, for that matter – that he knew of. Interesting.

Apparently, his colleagues had waited too long to get House's attention. A mere day later – again, forty hours after admission - same deal. The patients no longer had to worry about scoring the wrong drug. Or scoring anything else, for that matter, because they were dead.

House was angry, with a generous side of self-loathing. He didn't like mysteries he couldn't solve, or patients dying on him before he was good and ready for that to occur. But before he could get too depressed about it, another three identical cases came into the ER. Followed shortly after by _another_ two.

This time, now that House knew the stakes, he was going to leave no stone un-turned. He sent Cameron to get a history from all of them, which proved fruitless. Most of them just ignored her, or just kept on yakking in guttural voices, but not saying anything intelligible. One patient just growled and stared at the ceiling, and then ended the history-taking by puking in Cameron's face. Seemed to be a trend, House had noticed. Maybe it was time to make face-shields mandatory for her.

Chase and Foreman hooked each patient up to a few monitors, and took samples of blood and other bodily fluids, repeating everything the ER staff had done. Just in case. But all these tests told them little. They noticed a few unusual symptoms, but nothing added up to a likely diagnosis. Red marks, like scratches, that would appear for a few hours and then disappear. Sudden sharp rises and drops in blood pressure. House had heard other things, too, from the nurses – how they'd go in and the room would suddenly turn very cold, how they'd look into the patients' eyes, and the eyes would be their usual colour one moment, and utterly black the next, though that 'only lasted for a second'. The creepy, guttural voices. How they'd insulted the nurses, knowing things about them that the nurses claimed the patients had _no_ way of knowing. Strange, sulfurous smells inside the hospital rooms. But House discounted all of that. There was only room in his universe for science. Physics, chemistry, biology. Medicine. There was a logical, biological explanation for what was going on. He just hadn't found it yet.

He had twenty-three hours left.

Sam Winchester flipped through the newspaper while Dean and Dad sipped their morning coffee.

Sometimes, Sam wasn't sure why he was still doing this. The Demon was dead. It had been an uphill battle all the way, and Sam himself had nearly died, but Dean had put the Colt's last bullet through the thing's heart. It was over.

Sam hadn't been able to go back to his old life, though. It had been three years, and sitting in a library or dorm room studying for hours seemed rather pedestrian. Prosecuting human criminals seemed so…boring. Not when _true_ evil was out there, lurking in the to pounce.

Of course Dad and Dean hadn't been ready to give the life up yet, either. Predictably, killing the Demon hadn't been enough for Dad. He wanted all the thing's 'kids' as well. Failing that, he'd just settle for any demon stupid enough to cross his path. Or any demon-possessed human.

Which of course meant that Dean was still in the game, too. Dad had _tried,_ Sam gave him credit for that. He'd eavesdropped while John had sat Dean down, giving him a slightly modified version of the same talk he'd given Sam himself. That he was proud of them. That he was sorry he'd dragged them through Hell on his quest to keep them safe. That he acknowledged that he'd made mistakes, that he wished thin gs h ad been different. But that he loved them, and if they wanted to follow their own dreams – a law degree for Sam, a stable home of his own for Dean – he'd give them his blessing. Come visit them between hunting trips, too, if they'd have him.

Paradoxically, now that they had a choice, they'd chosen to remain with Dad, at least for now. Chosen to uphold the 'family business', of hunting and killing supernatural beings. Like Dean had once quipped, this job had its perks.

Sam flipped over another page, and a small article caught his eye. A hospital in New Jersey , where eight people in total had been brought in, showing signs that looked like psychosis, but the disease apparently proved lethal forty hours after admission, as three unfortunate patients had already discovered personally. The authorities were blaming dealers that were cutting their meth with things that had no business being in the human body, but...the symptoms mentioned in the article and the forty-hour lethality both raised alarm bells in Sam's mind. And it was only about a five-hour drive. Four hours, if John let Dean take the lead.

"Hey, I think I've got something." He passed Dad the paper, waiting while John scanned it quickly. Dad then got up from the table, passing the article over to Dean, and went to their duffle bags, starting to pack up. A sure sign they were about to hit the road, that Dad thought this was something they should look into.

So Sam followed suit, grinning to himself as he heard Dean mumble behind him. "Crap. Dude, I _hate_ hospitals."

Eighteen hours and counting.

More patients had come in, and now there were ten cases total of this strange disease.

Allison Cameron took off her glasses and rubbed at the ache between her eyes. What a crappy day. Getting yelled at by one patient, puked on by another (much to the amusement of the rest of the team), and now they were stuck staring at a whiteboard, covered with symptoms and rejected diagnoses, while House limp-paced angrily and hurled insults at their every suggestion.

She tried not to think about the fact that being in the same room with said patients had made the little hairs stand up on the back of her neck. She couldn't discuss it with anyone else, least of all House. He'd mock her, call her crazy. Probably order her tied onto a bed next to the patients. No thanks.

The patients had known about her late husband Thomas. How he'd died. They'd even known that she wanted House. One of them had even said: "You'd like to _fuck_ him, wouldn't you, Alli?" She'd hesitantly told House about that aspect – the fact they seemed to know things they shouldn't – and she'd left out the more personal details, but House had only waved his hand dismissively. "They overheard some staff gossiping. Whatever. See," he'd said, holding up the Magic Eight-Ball, "my all-knowing toy agrees with me."

Something was going on. She didn't believe in God, not really, but something evil was in t hat room. In those people.

House called them useless for the eighth or ninth time, and then ordered Chase and Foreman to run more tests. And told _her_ to make herself useful and make more coffee, before he limped off to his desk, turning on the TV. Asshole.

She was standing over the coffee-maker, breathing in the welcome smell, running over even vaguely plausible diagnoses in her mind, when she heard the conference room door open.

An unfamiliar voice asked behind her: "Are you Doctor House?"

She turned, to see three men standing in the doorway. One was an older man, with dark hair and eyes. Another was tall and scruffy-looking, and the final guy had short spiky hair and some kind of odd charm around his neck. All were in jeans and wearing leather jackets.

They looked rather out of place, actually.

"No," she said, stepping forward. "I'm Doctor Cameron. Can I…help you?"

One of the young men – the shorter one – smirked and let his eyes roam the length of her body, but it was the older man who stepped forward and addressed her. "I'm Dr. John Colt, with the CDC." He quickly flashed her his credentials. "This is Sam Kaplan and Dean Connors. We're here about the fatal psychosis disease."

She was surprised, frankly. "Forgive me," she said, shaking hands all around. "You don't look like typical CDC employees."

"Yeah," said the one introduced as Dean. "We were called here off of our respective vacations. 'Your health is important to us', and all of that."

Dr. Colt turned and glared at the younger man, then turned back to Allison. "Sorry. Apparently some of us are _still_ on vacation. Is Doctor House around, then? It's _very_ important that we discuss this case with him immediately."

"Yes, he's right in the next room," Allison motioned towards the glass connecting-door. Everyone present could clearly see House was watching TV, and Allison had to shove back the urge to defend his behaviour to the CDC men. House might come across as slacking off while their patients were dying, but although she knew better, she wasn't going to go to bat for him. Not after being treated like his personal doormat for the last five hours.

"Could my associates go over the patient histories with you, Dr. Cameron? I'm going to go speak to Dr. House."

"Of course," she answered, going back to her desk and collecting the necessary files.

John pushed the door open, mystified by this doctor's behaviour. This guy had patients dying somewhere in this hospital, and he was just sitting here? Even if he couldn't do anything to save them, the doctor didn't _know _that. John shook his head slightly.

"Dr. House?" he asked.

"That's what the writing on the door says," the scruffy man returned sourly, stabbing in the direction of the office door with his cane. Boy, John sometimes felt underdressed for some of the places he tried to infiltrate, but this fellow put even Sammy's perpetual grunge look to shame.

"I'm John Colt, with the CDC. We're here about those psychotic-"

The man cut him off, eyes still locked to the TV. Looked like he was watching " General Hospital ", of all things. "What, is it 'Casual Friday' at the CDC? Niiiiice. I should have our head administrator institute the same policy here." He paused to glance down at himself. "Oh, wait a minute-"

"Dr. House." John interrupted him. He tried very hard not to get impatient with the man. He didn't have time for pompous assholes who had _no_ idea what they were dealing with. The clock was ticking. "If we could focus on the matter at hand. The psychotic patients, the ones who are dying-"

House cut him off again. "Yes, I _know_ they're dying. Thanks for that bit of intell. I take it you're here to take them off my hands."

Ah, that was it. The man was expecting a territorial dispute. Well, he was getting one, but not in the way he expected. "Not at the moment," John assured him, trying to put the right dose of sincerity into his voice. "But we should probably quarantine them. Isolate them from the rest-"

Once again, the interruption. John felt his annoyance increasing. "Thank you, Doctor. I know what 'quarantine' is. That shiny medical degree over there-" he waved his arm towards the bookshelves, where John could see an untidy pile of papers, a somewhat-rumpled medical degree peeking out of a battered envelope uppermost, "-says so."

"Then we're in agreement," John said, trying again to quell his irritation. "I'm going to supervise the implementation of the quarantine procedures. Personally." This not only meant he'd get to see all the victims and observe their symptoms, but have them all in one place. Easier to perform the mass exorcism tonight.

"Not so fast," the other man said, propping his foot on the TV stand with both hands and then leaning back languidly. "How do we know it's communicable? It could be some new party drug or something. No one who's been treating them has developed any symptoms."

Give it time, John thought to himself. It was sheer luck that the demons hadn't jumped into any hospital personnel yet. With all the stresses and strains they went through, staff were prime targets for possession.

"Still, I'm sure you agree that being prudent-"

The man cut him off a final time. "_Prudence_ isn't one of my virtues. Just ask the Dean of Medicine."

John had reached his limit. "Dr. House," he hissed, fixing the man with his best death-glare, honed by years in the service and years of raising rebellious sons, "you _will_ put these patients in quarantine. Now."

House gave him a sharp look, momentarily startled. But then his expression hardened. "It's not my call. Take it up with Cuddy, the aforementioned Dean. In fact, there she is – see the impressive melons? That's her. Do us both a favour and go catch up with her. Out in the hall, thanks. I'm busy saving lives here."

If House hadn't already been a cripple, John Winchester would've been sorely tempted to hurt him – and _badly_ - right then and there…

Dean flipped through the histories, sneaking glances at Dr. Cameron.

He let Sam do most of the work, seeing if there were any connections between the patients. Any commonalities in their histories. Sam always had been better at the research end of things.

Not that they expected to _find_ any commonalities. Given that demons usually wormed their way into people through their emotional vulnerabilities, that made for a lot of potential human hosts. But you never knew. Maybe all the possess-ees were all in the same rehab program. Maybe they were all seeing the same family doctor or shrink. Someone foolish enough to summon the demons and put them into hapless people, just for their own sick amusement. Sadly, it wouldn't be the first time Dean and his family had encountered something like that.

Doctor Cameron was _very_ pretty, he'd noticed. She had to have brains, too, to be a doctor. Just the kind of 'full deal' package Dean liked best. So long as Dad and Sam were handling things, he didn't see why he couldn't have a _teeny_ bit of fun. Get on her good side. Maybe that would even help them later on.

"So, what kind of medicine do you do, Dr. Cameron?" he asked, trying to be smooth about it. He ignored Sam's exasperated eye-roll, which he could see out of the corner of his eye.

She glanced up at him, smirking faintly, as if she knew what was really on his mind. "Immunology."

"Cool," Dean said. "So, what's your take on these patients? It seem like a case of unexpected drug side-effects to you?"

She sighed and stood up, heading over to rinse her mug in the sink. "Not like any I've ever seen." A frown crossed her features, but she said nothing else. Dean wondered what she was not telling them. "Would you like some coffee, Doctor?" she asked him.

He held up his hand. "Call me Dean. And yes, please."

She brought him the coffee, but still looked uncomfortable. Like she was having some kind of internal debate. "If there's nothing else I can do for you…" she finally said.

"Oh, I can probably think of a few things later," Dean said, unable to keep a smirk off his face.

And a wince, as Sam's foot connected with his ankle under the table.

Still, she smiled a little at his attempt at a pick-up. Almost worth the sharp pain in his ankle.

He was about to try to ask her what she was holding back – maybe he'd practice using Sammy's famed 'coaxing-voice' to do it – when two more people came into the room. One blond guy, and one annoyed-looking black dude.

"Nothing and _more_ nothing," the blond said in an Australian accent, throwing some sheets onto the conference table. "No drugs, no viruses or bacteria of any kind…"

"No signs of brain tumours or other trauma," Black Dude chimed in. "And you are-?" he asked, turning to Dean and his brother.

"They're from the CDC," Cameron explained, going through the introductions. Given the circumstances, Dean decided to wait until a little later to pump her for the information she was withholding.

In the meantime though, he could save himself a slap to the back of the head from Dad, if he did something useful. "So," he started, shuffling the patient files, "patients come in, they're acting crazy. Weird changes in blood pressure. 'Temporary red marks'. Any idea what c ou ld be going on?" Of course, he and his family_ knew_ what was going on. Such biological signs were often associated with being possessed, but no one other than his fellow 'players' had documented it to date. The New England Journal of Medicine certainly hadn't run any 'Special Edition – Demon Possession' that he knew of.

Before the trio of doctors could answer, however, the man in the other room shouted their names and they got to their feet and headed over. Dean hung back with Sammy, waiting to see who and how badly Dad had pissed someone off _this_ time.

John watched impatiently as Cuddy and House duked it out verbally. She wanted House to be reasonable and put the patients in quarantine. He seemed to be disagreeing just to be disagreeable. How the man hadn't been fired already, John had no idea.

Honestly, sometimes killing supernatural beings was _so_ much easier than dealing with humans. People were freakin' _crazy_.

"You do what the CDC wants, or I'm taking you off the case," Cuddy finally proclaimed, hands on hips and extraordinary cleavage heaving. John had never seen a Dean of Medicine dress so provocatively, but he could admit he liked it. He'd bet Dean would, too.

"You wouldn't," House said dismissively.

"Why not?" Cuddy retorted hotly. "It's not like you've done anything _useful _since the case was handed over to your department. And you've probably got less than fifteen hours left before the first of the new patients dies. Time to get a fresh perspective on the matter."

When House only sat there, speechless for a long moment, she nodded over at John. "We'll prep the patients and move them into isolation immediately."

"Thank you." John breathed an inner sigh of relief. One hurdle down.

House grimaced, now looking very pissed off. "Cameron! Chase! Foreman!" he yelled, "Get your pretty and incompetent asses in here!" He was obviously ignoring the look of immediate disapproval on Cuddy's face.

Dr. Cameron and her two apparent colleagues materialized in the doorway. "Do something useful with your time, and go help the nurses move the patients into isolation," he snarled.

Hiding his own annoyance with the man, John rejoined his boys in the other room.

"Wow," Dean said, still looking over into the other room and obviously ogling Cuddy's chest. "I think I _like_ this hospital. Too bad I don't do cougars, though."

John looked around to make sure they were unobserved, and then gave the boy a smack across the back of the head. "Watch it, Dean."

"Sorry, sir."

John sighed inwardly. He knew he shouldn't have pulled them out of the last truck-stop so quickly. Dean was going to drool over everything female and vaguely good-looking within a five-mile radius…

Ten hours and counting.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Supernatural House: The Devil's in the Details: Chapter 2 **

The patients were all safely isolated, and Dean was keeping a close eye on them, Sammy had been sent off to retrieve the holy water and Roman Rituals they'd need for later tonight. Now John just had to figure out when would be the right time – i.e. a time when they'd be least likely to be caught by anyone – to carry out the mass exorcism.

He knew the exorcism was likely to be _noisy_, and he knew he needed to recruit some help to keep people away…just his luck, these demons were stupid (or smart?) enough to get themselves rounded up and sent to the hospital.

House was alone in his office again, glowering and making snappish remarks at another doctor John hadn't met yet, and John observed that Dr. Cameron was alone in the adjoining room. Perfect. John didn't want to deal with Gregory House any more than he already had to. He'd watched the man take nearly four pills over the course of the last three hours, and it hadn't mellowed him out at all. Damned lucky one of the demons hadn't just jumped into House. He was fertile ground by their standards.

"Doctor," he greeted Cameron, walking into the conference area and sitting down at the table, across from her. She looked tired. No surprise there, working for such a bastard. "Thanks for your help, putting the patients in isolation. It really _is _the best idea. No matter what your boss thinks."

She nodded, taking off her glasses and dropping them on the piled papers in front of her. "You'll have to excuse him-" she said, glancing over into the other office. "House is difficult, but…he's _brilliant_. He's solved so many puzzling cases, saved so many lives. But he doesn't take it well when he can't figure things out."

John shrugged, rewarding her with his most brilliant smile. "Doesn't mean he should be abusing everyone around him. I get that he's crippled, but that's no excuse." John reached across the table and touched her sleeve. She looked beat, and he knew that feeling. He'd often felt the same after long hours of tracking werewolves and wendigos through forests, of staking out abandoned houses waiting for strange lights and noises, of trying to oust demons from their victims.

"No, I guess not," she sighed. She looked askance at his hand, but didn't pull away. "He's just suffered a lot of…losses."

"He's not the only one," John answered mildly, pulling his hand back. He thought back to some of the insults he'd witnessed House throwing at Cuddy. He decided to make a few educated guesses. "I'll bet he rags on you all the time. Because you're woman. Because he thinks you're too emotional," John made a sound of disgust, to show his disapproval.

Cameron chuckled, her answering smile much warmer than before. "Yeah, how'd you know?"

"Lucky guess." John replied, smiling at her again. Except, not really. Not much of a lucky guess at _all_ - the PPTH grapevine. He wasn't one to make gossip, but _listening_ to gossip…at that, he was an expert. Keeping an ear to the ground, everywhere he went, that's how he caught a fair number of hunting jobs.

"Just-" Cameron said, breaking in on his thoughts. Now it was her turn to reach out and cautiously touch his sleeve. "He's not trying to get in your way. He wants to help these people. He just has…an unusual way of going about it."

_That _was for sure. Still, John supposed one could say the same thing about the Winchester clan.

Still, it was time to get down to business. He started to ask her what times the evening shifts checked in on the patients. Which was exactly when House came storming in.

House was really in a bad mood now. His leg was killing him, these idiots from the CDC had come in and pissed in a circle around _his_ patients…and now, if he was not mistaken, Colt was trying to put the moves onto his minion.

Wilson knew right away what was going on. Sometimes, it was a pain having a best friend. "What's with the 'death glare'? You're angry just because the CDC came in and took over?"

Wilson leaned forward in House's guest chair, peering into the next room. Seeing exactly what House was seeing – the guy from the CDC smiling at Cameron. _Touching_ her.

"You know," Wilson continued, settling back again, "If you don't actually want her for yourself, then some people might argue that you hardly have any right to get jealous."

"Who says I want her?" House returned irritably. He took a swig from his coffee mug, hoping Wilson would leave soon so he could sneak a shot of whiskey into it. Then he'd go check out these patients in person.

"The small black thundercloud above your head," Wilson said mildly. "Complete with miniature thunderbolts."

"Oh, really? Nice visual, Jimmy. Maybe it'll help my hair regrow. Cheaper than Rogaine." House growled at him. Drop the damned subject, in other words.

"He's a good-looking guy," Wilson continued, obviously not heeding the 'death glare' now turned his way. "Obviously he's got at least half a brain, to be working at the CDC. And he doesn't have a huge chip on his shoulder and a hatred for the world." Wilson paused and pretended to think deeply. "No, I'm wrong, you're in the clear – what could she _possibly_ see in him? Getting ignored by you is _so_ much more attractive."

Enough of this. Through the glass, House could see that Cameron now had her hand on Colt's sleeve. And she was _smiling_ at him. Time to break up that little love-in. If she wanted to jump Colt, she could do it on her own fucking time. Or so House told himself.

He pushed up onto his feet, and limped rapidly to the connecting door, shoving the door viciously open. "Happy Hour hasn't started yet, _Allison,_" he commented acidly. "You want to pick up random strangers for sexual purposes, would you mind doing it when we don't have patients about to die in, oh," he checked his watch, "ten hours, give or take."

Cameron went first white, and then red. House didn't have time to admire the effect, however, because Colt was suddenly in his face. "Don't talk to the lady like that," the guy rasped through gritted teeth.

Time to play the highly convenient cripple card. "What," House goaded, widening his eyes and pretending to cower. "You going to beat up on the cripple? To protect the lady's honour? _Please._" Behind him, House could practically hear Wilson's brains rattling as he shook his head in disgust at House's antics.

"I'll make you a deal, House," Colt snarled. "You go and make yourself useful, somehow, _any_how, somewhere else in this hospital, and I won't rearrange your face."

"Fine by me," House said mockingly. "Pardon me," he shot back over his shoulder, limping towards the door. "I'll just leave you to it then, _Allison_. Be sure to let me know if Colt here is enough of a gentleman to at least buy you a beer first."

Shocked silence behind him, House limped away to the elevator that would take him to the floor with the isolation rooms.

Partly, he was surprised at himself. Why _was _he so angry? He didn't want Cameron, he'd made that quite clear to everyone, most of all her. Why should he care if that asshole Colt was putting the moves on her? Maybe he'd even get lucky and she'd finally give up on a 'romance' between them for good, if she was getting schtupped by some other guy. Really, he should be cheering, even encouraging her. Shouldn't he?

Even once he had reached the isolation unit, House was still turning this annoying puzzle over in his mind, cursing under his breath as he donned the protective gear. He was still pretty sure he didn't need it, but there was no sense giving Cuddy any further excuses to pull him from the case.

Leaving his cane behind, he limped into the room, looking at each of their seven patients in turn. All awake, all grinning at him in a way he found distinctly…creepy. That, and the guttural, growly breathing. He told himself it was a sign of respiratory distress – even though they'd found no evidence of that so far – and limped over to the nearest patient. Bob Foster, the chart said. "How're you feeling, Bob?" House asked him.

Bob grinned, a maniacal light in his eyes, and House was very glad the man was in restraints. "The real question, Greggers, is how _you're_ feeling."

House felt his breath catch. 'Greggers' was his childhood nickname. His mother used to call him that, until he'd finally gotten tired of it at age nine and browbeaten her into stopping. No one at PPTH knew that. How did the damned patient _know_, for Chrissakes?

But Bob wasn't done. "That thigh of yours – such a poor excuse, really. The truth is, you're a coward. You want to _fuck_ sweet little Allison so badly. You want to ream her out in as many ways as a man can use a woman, in every _hole_ you can, but you're too scared that your thigh – or is it your _cock_? - won't rise to the occasion. And that even if you can manage to perform, that in the end she'll leave you the way that cunt Stacy did." Bob laughed, and drool leaked from the corner of his mouth.

House realized he was gripping onto the bed rails so hard that his knuckles ached. He'd had patients figure him out before, but _nothing _like this.

"Can we get off the subject of my non-existent love life for a second?" House snarked, but it sounded weak to his own ears. Keep it to medical issues. "I'd rather talk about how you may have caught this 'illness' of yours. So we can make you all better."

Bob laughed again, this time a high-pitched giggle that grated crazily on House's nerves. "Who says we want to be cured? Maybe it's more fun to die and make you lose sleep at night. Make you kill yourself with booze and pills. More proof that you're a coward, Greggers. A _real_ man would take a gun and have it over quickly. Take the burden of their stinking carcasses of the rest of us. Not linger on for years, pickling their organs gradually, sponging off a society that would rather see them _die_. And the sooner, the better."

House decided he'd had enough of this. He wasn't going to get anywhere with these people. Edging backwards, he noticed that the breath of the patient – indeed, all the patients – was clouding up. Was it really _that_ cold in here? He'd have to speak to the nurses again about adjusting the climate control. Shutting the air-lock behind him, House stripped off the isolation suit, trying to ignore how his hands were shaking.

As soon as House stormed out, John looked apologetically over at Cameron. "I'm so sorry, Doctor," he said. Cursing himself for getting involved. This would probably only make things worse between Cameron and her unreasonable boss.

But he'd always been this way. Standing up for the little guy, especially if the 'little guy' was a woman. If anyone had ever tried to treat Mary that way, John would've kicked their asses twenty ways from Sunday, and this was no different. Hell, even his career as supernatural hunter was an exercise in sticking up for the underdogs. Humans in general, in that case, but the principle held.

"It's OK. I appreciate what you're trying to do," She smiled tiredly. "And please," she added, "call me Allison."

"Allison," John said. A pretty name, for a pretty girl. Although he really had no business thinking that - he was still Mary's husband. Then again, if flirting with her made her feel good, maybe he'd be more likely to get her to cooperate. Certainly worked well for Dean. And he had to admit to himself, it was kind of fun to unbalance House this way. The asshole deserved it. So John let himself smile at her again. "I can see why he's jealous," he said. "If I had someone like you working under me, I'd be territorial, too." He tried not to put too much emphasis on the word 'under'.

A faint blush stained her cheeks, and her eyes dropped from his, but she was smiling. "You're very kind, Dr. Colt," she replied.

Smiling back, John started to gather the information from her that he'd need, so he and the boys could do this exorcism with the minimum chance of interruption.

Seven hours and counting.

Allison stood outside the isolation rooms, alone, watching the patients. They were all yelling now – had been yelling and cursing for over an hour, despite all the sedatives they'd been given – and she had to suppress a shudder. This was so wrong, and yet she knew House wouldn't understand or believe her if she tried to explain the 'wrongness' she was feeling to him.

John might, however. She debated finding him, and telling him everything.

But that was almost as confusing to her, if she stopped to analyze it. Colt was a good-looking man. _Very_ good looking. Broad-shouldered, dark eyes with incredibly long lashes, a sensual mouth. And he was a good man. She barely knew him, but she could tell somehow. Call it women's intuition. Or maybe it was only that he'd been willing to go toe-to-toe with House, just for her.

She'd even found herself _responding_ to his smiles, flirting back. Yet, she knew it wasn't only because he was an attractive man. If she was honest with herself, it was also because of House's angry reaction. He was jealous, and she found herself actually somehow pleased by this. She remembered what had happened with Sebastian Charles. At the time, she had attributed House's anger and his extreme behaviour to competition between him and Sebastian as doctors. She hadn't even dared to consider that House might be jealous of Sebastian over _her_. Even when House had inquired about her going to dinner with the other doctor, she hadn't let herself believe it had anything to do with her.

But seeing that same anger surface when she'd been talking to John – it was interesting. It almost made her want to flirt with John, if only to see what House would do. Although that was terribly manipulative of her. Still, where was it written that she wasn't allowed to flirt? She'd had two dates with House – well, one, if the monster truck rally didn't count – and then he'd dropped her like a hot potato. So screw him. As long as this didn't interfere with her work, the flirting was none of House's business.

Connors – Dean – suddenly materialized at her side, breaking into her thoughts.

"No change?" he asked, surreptitiously looking her up and down again. She noticed, though. What was with all these men, all of sudden? Not that it mattered. Allison wasn't really all that interested in Dean. He was cute, but not her type. She tended to go for older men.

Still, she didn't see the harm in it. After months of House snarking at her, Chase's clumsy passes, and Foreman's inconsistent 'yes-we're-friends-no-we're-not' routine, having a man - more than one - treat her like a _woman_, was a refreshing change.

Dean stood at the glass, keeping vigil with Cameron. He'd wanted to go in and test for himself whether these people were possessed – they were pretty sure, but as yet the patients hadn't been left alone long enough for him or Dad or Sam to actually go in and confirm it – but he didn't dare with Cameron looking on.

As if sensing his presence, the demon-possessed people all turned as one, glaring at him. Before she could notice and possibly wonder why they were so interested in _him_ in particular, Dean reached out and placed a light hand on her shoulder. "Can we talk somewhere a little more private, Dr. Cameron? There's something I want to ask you."

She turned to face him, smirking a little. "I hope it's about the _case_, Dr. Connors."

"Wha- oh, of course," Dean said. Damn, he only _wished_ he was able to find a nice quiet corner of the hospital – after the exorcism, of course – and have a little fun-

With an effort, he dragged his mind back to the issue at hand.

Not far away was a little waiting area, and Dean steered Cameron towards it. He sat down on one of the couches next to her, wondering how to approach this. Sometimes, he really envied Sam's silver tongue.

"Dr. Cameron," he started. "I think there's something you're not telling us."

She froze, eyes wide and wary. Yep, she knew something, alright.

Dean pushed on, taking a guess. "You think there's something…._weird_ going on, don't you? That this isn't just a medical issue." Yeah, they were pretty sure this was a demon-related thing, but it was just so…odd. Possessed people didn't usually end up in hospitals at all, let alone en masse. And despite what people might read in 'The Exorcist', the human hosts didn't usually die from possession. Even after they'd sustained lethal damage. Meg Masters had been living – sort of – proof of that. So at least Dean could try and get some confirming evidence from Cameron.

She let out a slow, sighing breath, releasing some of her tension. Good. "Yeah. As crazy as it sounds to hear you say it, that's what I've been feeling."

"What sorts of things have been going on, to make you feel that something unusual is going on? Anything that's not in the medical file?" he pressed.

"Um," she blushed a little, hesitating.

"It's OK." he coaxed in a low voice, turning on the five-hundred-watt smile. "No matter how insane it sounds, you can tell me. I promise to be totally non-judgemental."

She smiled at him. "Well, for one thing, the rooms have been getting…cold. Very cold. Colder than the air-conditioning can account for. And there've been strange smells in their hospital rooms."

"Like rotten eggs?" Dean asked. Sulphur.

"Yes. And those…_creepy_ voices they're using. Even if they're just faking it for some reason, why?" she asked, sounding frustrated. "House's mantra is 'Everybody lies', but people always lie for a _reason_. What reason do these people have to act this way?"

Dean shifted, a little uncomfortably. 'Everybody lies'? He and his family were practically living examples. Stick to the job, he told himself. "I don't know, but we're going to get to the bottom of it," he said with perfect sincerity. Because that part, at least, was true.

"But that's not even the worst of it," Cameron went on. "The thing that scares me the most, is the fact they _know_ things. They know about my late husband. They know how I feel about Hou- the problems I've had with House," she corrected. "And it's like they want to hurt me with that knowledge…God, this sounds so _crazy_."

It all pointed to demon-possession. Dad would probably still want to get in there and do his own checks, but Dean personally was satisfied. In the meantime, however, he could do a little helping of the damsel-in-distress.

He leaned forward, touching the back of one of Cameron's hands gently. "Yeah, I know it sounds absolutely nuts, but…what if you're _right_?" It was a risk, but they needed some hospital personnel on their side. She was already picking up on and admitting to herself the signs… He took a firm grip on her hand. "What if I told you there was something dark – something _evil_ – at work here?"

She smiled tiredly. "I'd say you needed a vacation as much as I do."

"Humour me, Dr. Cameron," he coaxed, giving her his trademark Sexy Smirk Number Thirty.

"Cameron!" someone called from behind Dean. Drs. Chase and Foreman appeared beside them, and Dean let go of Cameron's hand and sat back, pasting on his best 'we-weren't-doing-anything' face. A look passed between the two male doctors, though. Well, hopefully they wouldn't try to make trouble for Dean and his family.

Four hours and counting.

Awhile later, Cameron headed back to the Diagnostic area. The blinds in House's office were shut tight, so rather than risk disturbing him and getting her teeth kicked in for her trouble, she decided to join Chase and Foreman, who were still flipping through the patients' files in the other room. The CDC team members were nowhere in sight.

She got some more coffee for herself, and sat down at the table. "Anything?" she asked.

"Nothing," Foreman sighed. "You?"

"Nada," she said, shaking her head. No changes at all with the patients. Or rather, no telling _medical_ changes. She wasn't going to share with them what she'd told Dean.

"Oh, I don't know, Allison, you looked like you were getting _something_," Chase teased.

"I don't know what you mean," she replied frostily, getting irritated. She could tell already where this was going.

"That guy Connors. You two seemed to be getting very cosy together," Chase continued, smirking at her.

"Yeah, Allison," Foreman chimed in. "Do you want us to take your shift tonight, so you can do some 'follow-up'?" He raised his eyebrow at her.

She took a sip of her coffee, pretending indifference. "I fail to see why this is of such interest to you both."

"Just trying to help out, Allison," Foreman said, grinning. "Out of the three of us, you're the only one who hasn't been seeing anyone recently. We're willing to help out, take one for the team. That single date with House hardly counts, after all."

"Yeah, this guy's a much better catch," Chase added, grinning himself. "He's not an ornery old cripple. I think he likes you, too. That gives him points over House."

"And didn't that other guy - that Colt fellow – wasn't he showing a little interest, too? You're a popular girl today," Foreman continued.

"Yeah, you've got a regular bevy of male admirers going," Chase interjected. "That means you get to pick! Wow, you're lucky in love toda-"

"Could we just _stop_," Allison snapped, her fragile patience exceeded. Her little talk with Dean must have unsettled her more than she'd initially realized. "We should be focusing on the case – cases – not my love life, or lack of one."

She hadn't realized that the door to House's office was swinging open in the middle of her annoyed pronouncement.

"Oooh, gossip, I _love_ gossip! Do tell!" House's fake-breathless voice said from behind her.

Just what she needed. "No, I'd rather not," she said firmly. She glanced over her shoulder, watching House limp in, Wilson trailing after him with a resigned expression on his face.

"Doesn't matter," House said, "I'm sure I can convince the wimpier members of my team to give it up." Holding up his cane, he poked Chase sharply in the shoulder. "C'mon, wombat, _give_."

"Ow!" Chase whined, grabbing at the offended area. He got up and moved away to the other side of the room as quickly as possible.

"Spill," House threatened, "or I'll have you treating diarrhetic obese people exclusively for an entire week in the Clinic."

Reluctantly, not looking Allison in the eye, Chase sullenly admitted, "Nothing. Just that Connors was hitting on Cameron."

"Oh, how romantic!" House said in a high-pitched voice, putting a palm to his forehead and closing his eyes, as if he was about to swoon. But then his voice hardened and he leaned on his cane, glaring daggers at them. "Here's a thought – patients are _dying_. I know it's not nearly as exciting as what testosterone-ridden idiot might be hitting on your colleague, but you can at least _pretend_ that you care about these patients."

It slipped out before Allison could stop herself. "Yeah, like _you_ do," she grumbled.

Fuck, this was getting out of hand. First Colt, and now Connors, all of them distracting Cameron from what she should be focusing on – their goddamned patients and their goddamned mystery ailment.

Still, he discounted what Chase had said. He'd seen Connors, and he was too much the pretty-boy. Not Cameron's type at all. She'd probably accepted his advances just to be polite. The whole stupid nice-girl act. No, Colt was much more likely to float her boat, in House's expert opinion.

It angered him, though. He didn't have the patience or time for this shit. "_I _don't care? You're the one busy lining up suitors."

"Shut up, House," she shot back. Her vehemence gave him pause for a moment.

But only for a moment.

"Poor Colt, you're already moving on? That's quick even by 'whirlwind romance' standards."

"Connors and I were just talking. About the case. That's _all_," Cameron glared at him, sparks practically flying from her eyes.

"Ah, so Colt still has a chance, does he? I don't get it, though. He's not _dying_, so I don't know what you see in him," House shot back sarcastically. "Wait, maybe it's more prosaic than that – emotional illness, maybe? Is he _dying of loneliness_, and you're going to heal him, Our Lady Allison of Empathy?"

All the colour draining from her face, Cameron stood up abruptly. "Fuck. You. House," she said, pronouncing every word slowly and carefully. She turned and walked rapidly out of the office. After an angry glare from Foreman and an evasive one from Chase, both of them went after her.

Leaving House alone with Wilson. House could guess what was coming next.

"Smooth," Wilson commented drily behind him. "She'll definitely come running after you for sure, now. No woman can resist the whole possessive, jealous act. It's even better than the dreams/hopes/aspirations thing to get into their pants."

"Just shut the fuck up," House muttered.

Two hours and counting.


	3. Chapter 3

**Supernatural House: The Devil's in the Details: Chapter 3 **

It was late evening, and finally quiet enough that John felt it would be safe to test for _sure _whether demons were actually what they were dealing with. Sam and Dean were keeping the nurses occupied at their station, House and his team weren't around….perfect. Hopefully if the patients had a violent reaction, it wouldn't attract attention.

He didn't bother with the isolation suit, just went right in. He walked over and stood next to the bed of the nearest patient, a woman with oily, lank blonde hair, who was alternately groaning and speaking gibberish in a guttural voice. It all seemed a little 'staged' to John, frankly. Meg certainly hadn't acted like this, nor her 'brothers' and 'sisters' that they'd encountered thus far.

Dean had shared the information he'd gotten from Cameron, and John _was _pretty sure demon possession was what was going on, despite the oddness of the patients' behaviour. But he always preferred to be certain. It could, after all, be a simple case of ghost possession, which meant they'd have to handle things differently. Luckily, there were several easy tests he could perform. He reached into a jacket pocket, seeking the vial of holy water he always carried with him these days.

"Dr. Colt," a female voice greeted behind him. "Why aren't you wearing an isolation suit?"

It was Cameron. Also without a suit. John smiled at her. "Just John. And I notice you aren't wearing one either, Allison."

Taken aback, she smiled. "Um, true."

There was an awkward pause, broken only by the noises the patients were making. John decided to take a chance. "Even if I wore a suit, it wouldn't protect me. But I think you know that."

She didn't contradict him, just walked over to join him, looking nervously down at the woman tied to the hospital bed. "Connors…_Dean_, told me something else was going on. But not what." She looked earnestly up into his face. "I want to know. No matter how…crazy it sounds."

John nodded. "Are you a religious person?"

"No," she said. "I believe in…something. But do I attend church regularly? No," she replied, looking embarrassed now.

"Well, let's say I told you 'evil' existed. That it could come into people, take them over. Make them do bizarre and violent things. And that when this happened, the people involved need to be freed."

"You're talking about…possession, aren't you? Demon possession. That _is_ nuts." But she didn't seem convinced of the truth of her own words.

John nodded again. "It is. But you know that's what's happening here, don't you? You can feel it in your gut. You know there's something inside these people, something not natural. Not medical."

"I'm….not sure."

"Don't worry, Allison. There's a few ways to check if someone is possessed or not." He pulled out the vial, uncorked it, and held it up. "This is holy water. If I'm wrong – if they're not possessed, or if possession is just some crazy figment of my imagination - nothing should happen."

"If I take your word for it, that it _is_ holy water." She was starting to look a little skeptical.

Smart girl. He smiled. "OK, I'll show you it's harmless, to you and I, anyway." He held his palm out flat in front of him, so Allison could see clearly, and then poured a little of the holy water over it. He waited. Nothing.

"Care to try it yourself?" he asked, holding the vial out to her.

She hesitated, but he was obviously unharmed, so she took the vial. Spilled a few drops cautiously on herself. More nothing.

John took the vial gently from her hand. "So, I'm not possessed, and you're not possessed," he commented lightly. "You ready to see if _she_ is?" He motioned towards the patient with his head.

"Y-yes," a strange mixture of relief and fear on her face. She was eager to see if what her instincts had been telling her was total lunacy or not, he guessed.

"Brace yourself," he warned her. "This is might get quite a reaction."

Leaning over the woman, he let a few drops fall on the bare skin of her neck.

The reaction was immediate. White smoke boiled up from her skin, and those glazed eyes suddenly, horribly, turned utterly black and focused on John. A scream came from the woman's mouth, which John quickly tried to muffle with a corner of the bedsheet.

Yep. Demons.

"Oh…my…God," he heard Allison gasp behind him. He turned and she was white as a sheet, both hands knotted together against her throat.

"It's OK," he soothed, hoping his own calm would reassure her. He waited until the woman stopped thrashing underneath him, ignoring the fact that all the possessed people in the room were now staring at him with hate in their eyes. "You'll pay for that, Johnny-boy," another female patient across the room rasped. "You think you defeated the Demon? The one that fried dear sweet Mary and Jess to a crisp? He's got friends. Sons and daughters. And when they find you, they're going to peel the skin inch by inch off of your boys. Make you _watch_ while they scream and beg you to save them."

Maintaining his calm demeanour, John ignored the woman and walked past Allison to the bed directly across the way. "There's also another test," he said to Cameron.

He waited until she'd joined him by the side of the bed, and then he met the demonic hate-filled glare and said firmly, "Christo." The patient flinched, eyes also shifting to flat blackness, and roared in rage. John again hurried to muffle the noise, and looked over at Allison.

"Guess I'm not crazy, then. Good," he gave her another smile, to let her know he was joking.

"You're not really with the CDC, are you?" she asked, faintly. But it wasn't an accusation, so much as a statement of fact.

"Nope," John confirmed. "I doubt any of them know the appropriate steps to take." Still smiling at her, trying to reassure her that she wasn't losing her mind.

She was still white as a sheet, but she seemed less panicky. Sometimes, having one's gut feelings confirmed, even if what your gut was telling you was totally insane, made people feel better. Definitely wasn't the first time John'd seen that process in action.

"OK," Allison finally said, taking a deep, steadying breath. "What do we do to help them? An…exorcism?"

"Yep," John said, herding them both out of the room, ignoring the cacophony of insults and threats starting to rise behind them.

"Don't we need a priest for that?" Allison asked in a low voice once the air-lock door was shut behind them.

"Nope," John said. "Just strong enough faith."

At her doubtful look, he added, "Trust me, Allison. The boys'n'I have been doing this for a long time."

After a lengthy, searching look at his face, she nodded. "OK, what can I do to help?"

Admiringly, John nodded his head in approval. House really _was_ an idiot. This was a woman with strength. Mary would've liked Allison Cameron a great deal.

Forty-five minutes and counting.

They were cutting it very close, but Sam thought they'd be OK. Although they'd never done a mass exorcism before. This could get tricky, and dangerous.

Dad, as usual, had stubbornly insisted that it would be fine, ignoring Sam's questions as to how Dad _knew_. Par for the course.

Now Sam and Dean were going around the hospital room, making the final preparations. Doing their best to muffle any noise the patients might make, ensuring they wouldn't get caught or stopped before the rite was completed.

Sam knew Cameron's other two colleagues – Chase and Foreman – had been sent home for the day. Dad had said that House was sitting in his office, morosely drinking and popping pills. If they were lucky – if this ritual was as quick and successful as the one they'd always used on single possessions, the same one he and Dean had used on Meg – they'd have these people cleansed and they themselves would be long gone by the time House appeared to broodingly watch the patients die. Cameron had told them that coming up and punishing himself by watching them die was just the sort of way House would torment himself.

Cameron herself had proved to be a definite asset. Dad had somehow recruited her to their side, and she had found a way to clear the ward of nurses and security personnel. Told them they'd lost a child somewhere on another floor nearby. Supposedly a cancer patient or something. Didn't matter.

Leaving him and Dean free to prep the patients. Checking and reinforcing their restraints, gagging them so the yells and screams of the demons inside them wouldn't bring anyone running. Locking syringes and loose items in cabinets so the ousted demons couldn't pick them up and use them as weapons.

Finally, they were ready. Salt around the perimeter of the room to lock the demons inside once they were booted out of their hosts, before they were sent back to Hell. The same salt circles around each bed to keep a freed demon from jumping back into another patient.

A large circle of protection around Dad and Dean and himself. Mostly Catholic symbols, but with a hefty dose of pagan runes. Wards that Dad and other hunters had found through experience would work.

Finally, everything was ready.

They all opened their Roman Rituals and began.

Thirty minutes and counting.

Allison had the nurses and security staff looking all over, so she decided she might as well try to stall House as well. She'd assured the staff that the CDC men were keeping vigil over the patients, and that they'd be paged if they were needed. So with that taken care of, it was time to find a way to keep House from visiting and disrupting the rite.

He was in his office, gazing blankly into a half-full glass of scotch – the two-thirds empty bottle set next to him on the blotter – as she pushed the door open.

"House," she started, "you shouldn't be-"

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice so low that she wasn't sure she'd heard him correctly.

"What?"

"I'm sorry," he said a little louder. Then he swigged the last of the scotch, his throat spasming as he gulped it down.

"For what? For not knowing what the patients have?" She knew she should distract him, talk about something else….but she also wanted to reassure him. He wasn't, for once, going to solve this. It was out of his hands. And he was just obsessive enough, she knew, that he'd drive himself crazy over it, even if John and his family were successful. "It happens, House. You can't save them all, can't solve every case. You're not God." So ironic a thing to say, all things considered, and she had to hide an inappropriate grin. Followed by a burst of hysterics.

"No," he said, getting slowly up and limping towards her without his cane. She didn't know what was going on, so she got quite a shock when House's hand closed tightly over her wrist.

_Regno terrae cantate Deo, soli te Domino_

Stench of sulphur, enough to make one gag.

Freezing cold in the room, fingers numbing where they clutched at pages, trying to hold their place in the ritual.

Muffled screams, thrashing limbs, bulging eyes in which nothing but dead blackness was visible.

_pre fertum super celum_

Black smoke came spouting out of each mouth in a filthy river.

_tribute virtutem deo_

Twenty-five minutes and counting.

Wilson was right. House was doing this all wrong. He knew he had to make a decision. Either to let Cameron go, completely, and shelve the jealous act.

Or, to make his bid.

Fueled by a generous amount of scotch and two Vicodins, he made his decision and got up from his chair. Apologized, and reached out to touch her.

He knew he should go see the patients, should punish himself for his failure by making himself watch them die…but he couldn't stop.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed her.

Demons swirled around them, a cloud of choking blackness, threatening to breach the carefully-sketched wards.

_exorcizamus te...spiritus admissi satanica potestas_

It was even colder, breath steaming, ice crystals nearly forming on chapped lips.

_admissi curgio infernalis adversali et omnis letio_

Silent screams, the demons angered and frightened by their eviction.

Twenty minutes and counting.

Soft lips pressed tightly against softer lips.

Shuffling steps, the blinds pulled shut across windows. Doors locked.

A lab coat dropped on the floor. Then a red blouse. A grey skirt. A charcoal blazer and a pale blue button-down shirt.

Skin, soft under callused fingertips.

_omnis congregatio et sectatio_

Horrible images formed beyond the boundary of the wards. Mary, pinned to the ceiling, terror in her eyes as she burned. Jess, screaming that Sam should've warned her, should've told her about his premonitions, should have saved her.

_...perditiones venenam propinare_

Voices wavered a little, but only for a moment.

The dead were dead. You couldn't get them back. You could only move forward. Get revenge on the evil that preyed on innocents like Mary and Jess and so many others.

Keep reading the words that would banish this evil to Hell forever.

_Vade satana inventor et magister omnis... _

Fifteen minutes and counting.

Papers were swept off the desktop in an untidy jumble, sashaying lazily to the floor.

One person seated themselves on the desk, the other relaxed their aching thigh, sitting in the desk chair.

A pretty, lacy bra peeled slowly away from silken flesh. Lips wrapped around a nipple, the tip straining in response.

Callused fingertips traced gently up and down, along slim shoulder blades. Slender fingers twined in thinning hair.

A quick unzipping motion, which relieved some of the pressure inside too-restrictive jeans.

_...invocato at nomi santo et tribali nomine quem inferi tremant._

The former human hosts were shrieking in terror – or trying to, behind their gags. No longer possessed, and they couldn't be possessed again, thanks to the salt circles, but they didn't know that.

_A mercedes diavoli libera nos domine, ut ecclesiam tuam secura tibi facies._

Their panic only threw the frustrated demons into more of a frenzy. Unanchored objects were starting to fly around the room, battering against the invisible protections.

Almost over. Just had to hang on a bit longer.

_libertate servire te rogamus audi nos _

Ten minutes and counting.

Clever but slightly hesitant fingers stroked up and along rock-hard flesh. The caresses gaining in confidence as quiet sounds of pleasure sounded in the room.

Panties soon joined the pile on the floor.

A hot tongue, wet against slick folds, and hips squirmed. Soft, almost desperate panting broke the silence in the room.

A teasing brush against a tender spot, answered by a shudder.

The demons were weakening, starting to slide down into their Hellish prisons.

_sante ecclesiae te rogamos audi nos_

The pressure, unbearable mere moments ago despite the protections, started to ease. Lips kept on moving, however, firmly pronouncing the words. It wasn't over yet.

The former human hosts were tiring, though some still thrashed against their restraints. But it would it be over soon. They were almost safe.

_In nominis deus...sanctuario tuus..._

Five minutes and counting.

A shift in positions, a scramble in a messy desk drawer for 'protection', and then they were joined. Deep inside, heat meeting heat.

Careful, slow movements at first.

Adjustments, designed to compensate for a painful thigh and very little room to work with in the seat of the chair.

But they moved in tandem at last, their hands caressed each other, their groans muffled by kisses.

Pressure built, as knuckles found a good spot, pressed firmly.

She surrendered first, eyes closed while her fingers dug into his shoulders. Touching off his final release, her body drew on his as he gave her everything he had.

_Exert tua virtute et fortitudinem levi sue_

The blackness was fading, going away.

_benedectis deus gloria patri._

True silence. Not the ringing silence filled with rage and terror. But actual silence.

The sulphur and cold dying down.

Time was _up_.

Allison looked up as John came sauntering into the conference room. "You'll be leaving soon, won't you? You've got other people to save."

"That's right," John answered. Things were almost wrapped up here. The boys had removed all evidence of the exorcism. The 'cured' patients were confused, but they'd seen the wisdom of keeping quiet about what had happened to them. None of them were crazy about the idea of being locked in a rubber room after being locked in their own bodies.

Having once faced his own choice, either doubting his very sanity and getting himself 'treated', or finding out the truth, John could sympathize.

Still, not everything was done. After interviewing all the victims, they finally had a lead. But there was no reason to involve Allison or any other PPTH personnel in that. The three of them could handle it.

"Goodbye, Allison," John said, holding out his hand to her. She took it, smiling, and then gave him a hesitant hug. "Thank you," she said in a low voice. "For saving them. And for showing me that I wasn't losing my mind."

He grinned at her, daring to give her a quick kiss on the cheek before letting her go a little regretfully. If he'd been younger, less married to the notion of chasing demonkind all over the country, less married to _Mary_ still….one day, perhaps. But that day wasn't today. "You're welcome. Take care of yourself. And that asshole boss of yours."

A blush rose on Allison's cheeks and she dropped her eyes, but before John could question her, the voice of the asshole in question interrupted them. "The 'asshole boss' would like a word with you, Dr. Colt."

As Allison and Jim Wilson might have predicted, House was both happy – or, as happy as he was capable of getting – and unhappy with the outcome. While he didn't have a room full of dead Diagnostic Medicine cases on his conscience, he also didn't know _why_ they were well. He'd been most pleasurably distracted by Allison, and hadn't been around at the eleventh hour. But somehow they'd survived. All of them. House still didn't know the cause of their illness, what illness it had been, and why these last seven people had lived when the three had died.

He hated it when he couldn't solve the medical puzzle.

He had a feeling, too, that the 'CDC men' had something to do with the miraculous recovery. He intended to find out how.

House waited until Colt came in, shutting the connecting door behind him. The man looked as if he expected what was coming.

"I checked you three out," House said, voice carefully neutral for once. "There's no John Colt currently working at the CDC. Nor a Dean Connors or Sam Kaplan."

Colt said nothing, just waited.

"So who the fuck _are_ you?" House was starting to get annoyed.

"Does it matter?" John asked. "Your patients will live. There aren't any other reports of 'illness'. We're leaving within the hour, and we're unlikely to set foot in your hospital again. Case closed all around."

"Maybe," House grated, "that's not enough. Maybe I want it _explained_ to me."

Colt paused, and House got the feeling the man was taking the measure of him. "What if I said there's more out there than just what you can see with your eyes. Than you can measure with your medical tests. Cure with your medicines."

House shook his head. "I'd say you need to visit the Psychiatry Ward two floors up."

Colt shook his head. "Then I can't explain it to you. Chalk it up to luck and call it a day."

House waited, but the man gave him nothing else. It was true, House wasn't ready to hear this sort of mumbo-jumbo. His life was complicated enough.

Finally, unwillingly, House mumbled, "Thanks."

"You're welcome." The other man said.

"But I'm sure you'll understand," House added nastily, "That I don't want to see you or your 'colleagues' again."

Colt nodded his understanding. "Same here," he said, subtly emphasizing the first word as Allison came through the adjoining door with a new patient file in her hands.

"Am I interrupting? Cuddy has a new case-" she looked back and forth between them.

"Nope. Time to hit the road." Colt nodded at both of them, then left the room.

House started to stand up, then grimaced and reached for his Vicodin.

The mysterious, miraculous curing of his patients was maddening, yes, but he didn't think he'd ever find an answer that made sense to him. It seemed much more important to decide what to do about the sudden alteration in his relationship with his fellow.

Despite his earlier thoughts, the ones that had gotten him into Cameron's pants in the first place, House knew he could – and probably _should_ – end things here. Chalk what had happened between them up to stress. Or blame the alcohol and pills. Tell her it had been a mistake.

But he also knew that the next time another guy hit on her, he would regret his decision if he let her go now. He didn't want this to begin and end with one hot tryst on his desk.

"Tonight," he said to her. "My place. If you're lucky, I may even serenade you on the piano. Sound OK?"

Her eyes were glowing, and he resisted the urge to make some sardonic remark about whether he ought to get in a position to catch her if she _swooned_ – or page Wilson to act as a stunt-double in that case – and just waited.

"Sure," she said, and he gave her points for the casual way she said it. Maybe this wouldn't be as Harlequin romance novel as he'd thought.

"Good," he said, holding out his hand for the file. "Where's Blackaparte and Wombat?"

Dean salted the corpse and sprinkled it with lighter fluid. Just to be sure. The man had died angry, and they didn't need the ghost of a demon-summoner roaming around and causing even more trouble.

It all made sense now. The relatively high number of possessions, the fact they'd all wound up at PPTH. Most demons wanted to lay low and enjoy their new bodies, not get caught and exorcised. But these ones had made a deal with the summoner. The asshole had _wanted_ them to end up at the hospital. And wanted them to die there.

Revenge seemed to have been the motive. The summoner had a grudge against Gregory House, from what the man himself had said. The guy knew that House would punish himself if the patients died on his watch. He'd see the deaths as a personal failure. Maybe quit medicine altogether, or even speed up his self-destructive behaviours.

Dean lit the corpse on fire, watching to make sure it caught. He knew Sam was upset about the guy dying, but he and Dad were more practical. This dude had used innocent people for his own ends, had allowed demons a gateway into their world…he didn't deserve to live. Dad and Dean had come here prepared to kill the man.

But it hadn't been necessary. As often happened with demon summoners, somewhere along the way the man had been possessed by the very be ings he'd been trying to force into other people. And much like Meg Masters, the inhabiting demon had played rough. The man's body was only still alive because a demon inhabited it.

Unlike Meg, however, the dude hadn't been happy to be freed of the demon. He'd cursed them until his last breath, after learning of the failure of his plans. Hence the salting and burning. The Winchester s had enough ghosts tailing their family already.

Dean joined Dad and Sam at the door, taking one last look around. The warehouse would burn down, too, but he knew Dad figured that was safest. Cleanse the area. Consume all the papers with their summoning spells. Also wipe away all traces of Winchester fingerprints and such. Good deal.

"You boys ready to join me for a drink?" Dad asked. He smiled at Dean, and gently nudged Sam, who was still looking downcast.

"You bet, Dad," Dean answered, giving Sammy an elbow to the stomach for good measure. "Stop being such a girl," he hissed at Sam under his breath as Dad went ahead of them down the stairs. "Nothing we could've done. He brought it on himself." He heard Sammy sigh behind him as he started down the stairs.

Behind them, firelight glinted off the papers scattered over the dingy desk, played over the line in bold print at the top of nearly all of the sheets.

FROM THE DESK OF EDWARD VOGLER.


End file.
